


A Note On the Door if You Would Kindly...

by Lilithisbitter



Series: Come at Once if Convenient Fanfiction Collection [5]
Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Play, Breast Worship, Character Death, F/F, Female-Centric, First Time, Kink, Mention of fisting, POV Female Character, Rule 63, Sherlock is a jerk, The Final Problem, Threesome, Vaginal Fingering, Watersports, girl on girl love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 10:18:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3606507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilithisbitter/pseuds/Lilithisbitter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of Joan Watson's Final Problem and why she didn't mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Note On the Door if You Would Kindly...

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Come at Once Round V and man did this turn out dark.

She's been only in love three times and you can tell by the glow...

\---

It had been Joan's suggestion that they use a sock on the door knob. It was traditional, practical, and more than a bit amusing. For a man as mouthy as Sherlock, he could be disturbingly quiet during sex. For various reasons. Many she had walked in on. There had been the bullet ant gloves, the makeshift sensory deprivation chamber, the sounding, and the time he used police cuffs instead of bondage and nearly gave himself a degloving injury. 

"Socks, Watson?" he had scoffed, staring at his feet for emphasis, as if daring Joan to suggest he put the current pair on the doorknob. This pair were covered in bees trailing music notes behind them, a gift from a client, who apparently shared both sheets and love of socks, considering how long Sherlock had not stopped talking about them. 

The socks that is. The maker was faceless, but considering that Sherlock hated such gifts suggested a bond of the squeaky springs variety. Possible Jamie level. "Victoria made these."

"Client?" Joan ventured to guess. 

Holmes hummed thoughtfully. "It pains to tell me..."

At the same time, she mumbled, "It never pains tell you." He ignored her, off filtering in that attic, mind space, palace, city, cavern between his ears... What have you. 

He paused for dramatic effect and his own ego. "No. Not in the least. A client would never make socks. The most a client has ever given me is a broken jaw and a hefty dental bill." Sherlock peeled back his lip and point at a eyetooth. "Dental implant. Courtesy of a boxer with a steady hand and a good right hook in Gare de Lyon. If you were to visit that site, dare I say, you find my tooth still embedded in the wall where my face struck." 

"You're drifting," Joan said, the talk of teeth in walls having put her off her lunch with Gregson. Shame. The man needed it. The divorce was not helping him at all. She would have to text him and let him know some other time. "What about this Victoria?"

"Glad you brought her up," he cheerful quipped, playing with a loose thread in the right toe of his sock. Given enough time, he could worry it into a hole and then a whole mess of thread and yarn. Seemed a waste of the Mysterious Vicky's talents. "Victoria and I are due to have dinner tonight. She's eager to meet you."

If Joan had been drinking tea, she would have a done a spit take. instead, she settled for a flat, "This is the first time I've heard about her."

Sherlock grinned so disturbingly wide that it put Jack Nicolson to shame. Nicholson probably would have told him to dial back before he grinned his head off. "What a cowinkydink, Watson. She's heard all about you."

\---

Victoria Trevor was nothing like Sherlock Holmes' type. Which Joan deduced to be blond with obvious side boob and little brain since there was a part of him that was sexist as all fuck and hated being surprised. Victoria (call me Vicky, please) Trevor was Chinese, only an inch taller than herself, full of much whit, and very much a lesbian. She did knit socks and presented Joan with her own pair covered in lilacs and bells,little cuff clouds of babies breath. They were silly and precious at the same time. Joan felt touched and a bit awkward at this beautiful daring giver of silly socks. Her dark eyes with flirting and daring. And then Joan didn't mind. "I'm glad to meet you," she said, "I've heard a lot about you."

The only other person to be that daring with her had been a primary, Sherlock's enemy. The woman who was now painting increasingly erotic pictures of her. The last was a disturbingly accurate picture of Joan masturbating, her fingers wrapped around the curve one breast, pussy and anus twin plugged with generous sex toys. The portrait of her flushed and well fucked had driven her to several accurately predicated climaxes. She knew Holmes deduced it. She was practically caught in the act. It was like the time Sherlock bragged to Mycroft, he deduced she was a squirter. Damnit Sherlock, shut up, she wanted to say, but all she could do was smile politely and fail to stab the bastard's hand with a fork. 

It disturbed her how much she didn't mind those pictures. One, it meant Moriarty was alive. Two, she wasn't going to kill her. Three, she found her fuckable and that was oddly flattering. Meanwhile Sherlock thought her life could be solved by a infusion of penis to be administered on appearance of perceived bitch as if she was some hysterical Victorian woman with a crooked uterus. Jamie just thought she needed sex because she was worthy of sex. How enlightened could one get.

On the other hand, said enlightened was The Enemy, capitalized for emphasize. And some days when they came across another murdered woman or man accused of crime simply for the color of his skin, in an age where the majority claimed they were enlightened, at times, The Enemy seemed right. That if the world should burn, would anyone shed a tear?

"Errr..." Joan sipped her wine, meeting Vicky's dark smiling eyes. What could she say to something like that? I've heard practically nothing about you? Horrible, no. That's nice? To the few female friends of Sherlock besides Ms Hudson and come to think of it, besides her, Vicky, and Ms Hudson, Sherlock was rather deficient in the lady friend department. As in lady friends he hadn't bedded. Had he tried to bed Vicky? She wouldn't blame him, Victoria Trevor was beautiful. "So," she ventured to ask, "How did you two meet?"

Sherlock looked embarrassed and buried his head in his menu, trying to merge into a strange new life form. Vicky chuckled. She had a delightful laugh. "Amusing story. So, we're at college and I'm out walking my little dog..."

"I'm sorry," came Sherlock's muffled voice, "but I must correct you, that was not a little dog and it wasn't a dog. It was a large bundle of razors on a leash trained to seek out ankles."

Joan chuckled as Vicky mock pouted. "Oh now you spoiled the story, spoilsport Holmes."

Sullenly, Sherlock said, "I did not spoil, I simply saved."

She's not Sherlock's type. But she could be Joan's. Vicky peeked across the table, smelling of flowers and secrets and continued, "She might as well hear, it's a good story. Picture him with his head in a book. I'm walking my little dog. He's got his head shoved so far up his ass I'm surprised he can see the pages." Vicky's hands recreated the actions. "That's when Sherlock steps on Toby's foot,"

"Who is Toby?" Joan asked.

"A razor with fur." Sherlock growled. 

"My little dog," Vicky elaborated. 

"You suck at storytelling. I'll take over, Watson. I practically am."

Vicky rolled her eyes. "He like this with you?"

"Worse."

Dark eyes gleaming, Vicky chortled. "I knew it. He gives you hell, you smack him upside the head a few times with a newspaper and rub his nose in his mess so he knows he's done a bad thing."

"Does it work?"

Around her sip of sparkling water, Vicky mumbled "damnedifiknow." She swallowed and added,"But it works on my dogs, so it will work on the NYPD's sniffer dog."

The meal continued long into the hours of the night. And sometime after Sherlock, Vicky turned and looked at her with those soft dark eyes and said "I would love to meet with you tomorrow."

Joan wants to kiss her. "I..."

"I'm not being too forward, am I? Tell me and I'll back off. If you're not into women. We don't recruit. And don't say you're open to new things. For God's sake, how I live my life and love, is not a buffet for the curious. I'm sorry, that came out wrong... I mean you can say no if you want."

"Can I say yes if I want?"

The smile on Vicky's face only increased that grow if such a thing were possible. She removed a pen from her bag and jotted her number down on Joan's hand. "Call me, when you're ready."

The number went straight into Joan's iPhone. 

\---

That night she dreamed Jamie came and perched her crotch over her face. It was clean smelling and lightly furred with red-gingery curls. Her clit is proudly erect and peeping from its hood. It seemed perfectly natural. She kissed those lean thighs, licked the c-section scar that is cleverly hidden in the soft flesh of her belly. Her hips are those of someone who has given birth to one child. Slightly wider. She smirked with the knowledge that it's something Sherlock doesn't seem to know. 

Jamie cooed and rubbed her puffy cunt against Joan's lips. "Vicky, you like her, don't you? Joan likes it. With men, she goes through motions," she singsongs. "She'd do anything with a woman." 

"What makes you think I would?"

"I rather or rather you know." Jamie smirked and splayed her labia, "Or should I say, drink my sweet nectar." She tilted her head back with a moan and pissed in Joan's mouth.

Joan gurgled in surprise for a moment, urine dribbling around her lips. Her pussy, throbbed, her fingers reaching down to toy with her folds. She eagerly drank, plunging her tongue into her folds, Moriarty's wee streaming around her face and rushing down her throat, finished with a gush of clear slippery girl spunk as Jamie came. Her legs were shaking as she eased berself Joan's face and nuzzled into her side. "Very good, very delicious, pet," she cooed, darting her tongue into Joan's mouth. "Now how about you return the favor?"

\---

When she woke up, her sheets were soaked with sweat, urine, and liberally smelling of sex. Joan pulled her fingers from her mouth and the pillow between her legs. It was most likely ruined. She had not engaged in water sports ever since someone had suggested it was an Asian thing. So she was comfortable with her sex life. So Sherlock expected her to be more shocked with his kinks. Personally, she was shocked with how little she was. She gathered up her bedding and went down to the basement in a bathrobe and her sloppiest fuck off clothes she had. This time, Sherlock was snoring in what could only be termed as a girl pile, clips on his nipples and a still vibrating butt plug jammed up his backside. One of the girl pile was gently sucking his sack to some random tune of her own design. Sherlock opened one grey eye and peered at her. "I don't judge in case you're wondering," he said, "considering the numerous times you've caught me in the act on so many times, hence the notes. The pissplay isn't really a deduction, you just don't delete your internet history that well. Still, better than trains. I don't judge."

"Good to know," she said, stuffing her sheets into the washing machine. "I thought we agreed on a note."

"Out the window with your bladder, Tinklebelle." Joan groaned at the horrible pun. "I'd like some coffee."

"Brew it yourself, I've got a date with Vicky."

"Bout time," Sherlock quipped, "she's not my brother, not a meathead and I was on the edge suggesting you shag Moriarty."

"What am I? Your porn? Or are you hoping we'd let you join in?"

It was satisfying to have the last word on Sherlock Holmes. 

\---

How did one dress for a date with a person as wonderful as Vicky. Someone who seemed to transcend gender. Vicky, her eyes soft, hands strong, "I look forward to meeting you." 

Dear God, was it simply puppy love? Was Jamie's experiment in smutplay through portraits starting to wear on her? And it wasn't just picture. Jamie sent sex toys, edible panties, and very specify instructions. Did one have to be the man or was it okay to remain as herself. Did Vicky like thong panties? She was a vision in silk but how was Joan to know if Vicky always wore an itty bitty violet skirt and fuck me on this table now Joan Watson pumps. How was Joan to know if this was anything more than a sex thing. It shocked her how precious little she knew about lesbians and how much was based off stereotypes. Vicky, nothing like that. She wasn't masculine, lipstick. Her hair flowed down her back, her face free of make up. How did she meet the expectations of a Goddess who made bee socks and transcended gender with her metaphorical dick so to speak. How did one dress to impress. Joan giggled as she stripped out of her bathrobe. "One meeting and I'm besotted."

She opened her closet. Much to her surprise, Jamie slithered serpent-like out of the back and sidled to her. But why should be. "Oh Joanie," she cooed, "wear me." And she slid her hand down Joan's pants, where she immediately began fingering Joan. A single finger breached her anus. Joan gasped. "Sssh sexy," Jamie cooed and covered Joan's mouth with her other hand. "I don't want to gag you, dear, but Sherlock bores me dreadfully, partially in the matters of the bed. Only a man could make sex so tasking. Silent, yes, good." Jamie removed her hand and rolled up Joan's top. She playfully squeezed at her breasts. "Lovely tatas, dear. Nipples like chocolate drops". She flicked one. Joan bit back a moan and licked her lips. "Good pet.

"I wasn't kidding," she continued as she added a questing finger to Joan's cunt. "About wearing me. I'm jealous of Victoria Trevor. I thought of skinning her, but I saw her. Apparently I have a thing for Asians with legs and tight little... Mmmm, well I do love loosening a nice tight girl." Jamie smirked. "I want you to wear me and nothing else. To prance in that restaurant and win our tight little Vicky over, my fist in your sweet tight arse."

Joan's legs trembled. "You're kidding."

"I rarely kid. This coming from the woman who dreams that a strong woman would push her done and use her as a toilet." She tapped her nose. "Open that sweet little mouth, I've been waiting in your closet for ages. My bladder is bursting and Sherlock has just left. But I think a part of you wants to be caught. Because if you didn't, you'd still be a surgeon. You want the world to stomp you down. Be glad. I'll protect you from it. 

Jamie undid her tight jeans and unzipped them. Her blouse fluttered to the floor exposing the pert peak of her quivering breasts. Her naked body was different than how Joan pictured. No scar, shockingly boyish hips, pussy lips expertly waxed. Jamie beckoned her with the same finger that had been up her butt. Joan pressed her mouth to that yielding cunt and eagerly drank and because it seemed right, she pulled down her sweats, splayed her thighs and pissed, working her clit as it throbbed with her stream. "Oh you filthy puppy," Jamie moaned, still peeing as Joan switched from drinking to worshipping the tight bud hidden in her crack. "Fuck me with your tongue." Her cries of delight increased as Joan's breached her anus. "Could a Holmes love you like this?"

A bitter twinge echoed in Joan's chest. She removed her tongue and let out a involuntary cry, still sitting there, the last of her urine flowing from her. Jamie sensed her distressed. "Mycroft," she cooed, suddenly soft, "you loved him. I'm sorry, I don't really understand love." She kissed Joan's eyelashes and licked her tears with kittenish bats. Her mouth lightly kissed Joan's and darted lower, pressed her mouth to to the puddle of Joan's urine and drank, cleaning the floor. 

"What are you doing?"

Jamie lifted her dripping lips. "Loving you. Let me love you." And then she pressed her mouth to Joan's folds and worshipped her with her mouth. There was nothing but silence as Joan silently came. 

And it seemed only right to return the worship. 

\---

They held each other for what seemed like hours but according to the clock was less than one. It seemed right to lay on the floor with ones' fingers inside of another woman, breasts mushed so pleasing together in the odd little instant when you realized how perfectly made another woman was. Joan considered it. Everything internal and self cleaning compared to the oddly placed root that was the penis. 

Jamie was staring at her with what was probably the same expression she imagined she wore. Perhaps she had some similar thoughts. Jamie said, "I've been thinking," and Joan chuckled and said "a fine thing to do after a nice shower" and pressed her mouth to one of those delightful breasts she had been dreaming of omnonnoming on since they starting spooning. 

"Serious, Joanie, I am... Oh keep doing that, Joanie your mouth."

Joan pulled her mouth away. "As long as you keep loving it," she promised and reapplied the devotion of her mouth. 

"Like that," Jamie cooed, her fingers running through Joan's hair. "Should take a proper bath. Tons of.bubbles. Then I find why you love her." 

Joan lifted her head. "Why?"

"Why do I do anything? Because I was watching you that night. I've seen you with Mycroft so when I say I didn't know you like loved him, it wasn't because I didn't know. I might be a cold, hateful woman but i know love on some level." Unaware, she cupped her belly, obviously thinking of her daughter. "So clearly you love her. Because I see you look at her in that one instant and you glow. All the those men you claim to love, one in the grave and one as good as... Sorry, but such is his odd life, you never glow with them. This love you claim to have for Mycroft, never a glow. Just a spark. You've had sparks and the thing is sparks are moments and moments fade. But a glow is starlight and will never fade. And so I desire her glow." She paused and looked at Joan with a strange longing expression. "I don't understand why. This woman I thought I was the woman. But no, she's the woman who beat him."

Joan chuckled. "No. She's the woman who made him. Ask her why he's the first consulting detective."

In a mock toast, Jamie said, "To the woman who made him from the woman beat him. I'm honest when I say I should like to meet her." 

With a straight face, Joan uttered "With or without fingers?"

\---

In the light of day, in clothes straight out of a second hand bin and glasses scratched on one lens, Vicky was still a vision. A enormous Irish wolfhound, although too young to be the one that bit Holmes for she still had her puppy cost, lay curled at her mistress's feet, tail thrumming in hopes of a dropped morsel. Reality only augmented the glow. The same glow had once surrounded a thin blond painter draped,in clothing as pure white as the can is she,worked on, ten perfect toes curled in thought or repose, far too untouched for, this spot of filth they had stumbled into. 

They should have known. The clues were there. Moran had practically blurted out his boss had possession of a nice set of XX chromosomes. Shame that Moran went to his grave never knowing that,his dear sweet sister Jamie was perfectly safe and perfectly willing to let her brother smash his face to ribbons and his brain to a pulp. It's a fearful glow, but you fear it less when you realize Jamie "Moriarty" Moran looks at Vicky the same way Joan had. 

Vicky is good,kind, and real...,perhaps the reason a certain consulting detective isn't dead in a pool of his vomit. She's not a muse. She's human. And yet she bonds. Vicky smiled from over her cup of coffee,her eyes shining as ever. "Joan,who is your lovely friend?"

And it seems right to only introduce them. 

\---

And they fall in love. Not a petty threesome, but the rare mutual love that transcends description. For to define love is to destroy it. 

Sherlock is not surprised by Joan dating a woman. Or for that matter,it being Jamie. He does seem honestly surprised by Vicky. He,deduced by blonde and black hair. Were Vicky a redhead, he had lamented, like they were his own personal Charlie's Angels. 

Someday they will find Jamie's daughter and raise her. But for now there are bees, paintings, and notes on the door. 

-coitus and all manner of kinks in progress-

-they're always in progress, watson. how's the ménage au ladylove-

-fine. how's your wrist?-

-surprisingly strong.-

-no ladylove, just sleep. either way, fuck off-

\---

Some day Joan hoped they'll be little old,women and they'll be raising bees and a daughter with hair of gold. Jamie doesn't see old age as a remote possibility. She only saw facts and the cold ugly truth of the world. Joan doesn't. But reality has a nasty plan. And bees kept dying no matter what Sherlock does. When he lost his hives to illness save the bees that bear her name, she witnessed him roar in rage before stomping the glasses and wood pieces to frames as the panicked bees stung him to save their dying queen. 

And reality got harsher. 

Jamie's only daughter died when the safe house she was in burst into flames. Mycroft died alone and sick, when his leukemia relapsed and was no longer a wildfire. Sherlock developed Alzheimer's and lost the one thing he valued above else. And Vicky Trevor gave up her life to be caretaker. And then after Sherlock's death, her glow was too painful. And she died in her sleep, one less light according to Jamie. 

And though it all, Joan's health took a turn for the worse. She had dizzy spells, vertigo, nausea so bad it floored her, and headaches. Those were the worst of it. And Jamie didn't need to know. And yet...

The last honeybee died three days after Jamie drew a nice hot bath, wrote her goodbyes, and slit her wrists. 

My Dear Sweet Watson, it read. 

How lovely you look today. I looked in the mirror and all I can see is a hag. I lost another tooth today. A molar. I know I don't take care of myself, but there is little reason to. How dark and silent is the world since my glow has started to fade. 

I wish I could tell you that you would outlive the stars, but you are going to die. I killed myself because I couldn't bear to watch that glow become another spark. From the slowness in your movement, the droop in your face, your headaches, I deduced the cancer is inoperable. 

Joan bit her lip. The cancer wasn't news. The note was. She stared at Jamie's corpse, silvered hair turned auburn by her own blood. This time Irene Adler hadn't faked her death. She stared back at the note. 

My favorite painting is Falls of the Reichenbach by Turner. I don't want you to die in pain and I want your grave to be beautiful. I want you to glow. 

Five feet away the honeybee that bore her name slowly faded. 

\---

And we all fall in the end. 

Joan burned the seed vaults. Somehow it seemed right that the world that had made Jamie so bitter should never enjoy her knowledge. After that, she planned on visiting Vicky's grave. She wondered how much time before the tumor ate her brain. Before she forgot getting caught being in love and making love and losing love to two of the best women. 

She had little reason to be bitter, but was bitter all the same. For when you are as loved as much as Joan, leave a note on the door if you would kindly, whisper your kinks if you may, and meet her at the top of the bottom for her swan song. 

There's always a door open, my dear sweet Jamie and Vicky. 

-Dr Joan Henrietta Watson, January 6th, 2064. Many happy returns WSSH, see you one last time at Reichenbach.


End file.
